After Midnight
by frecleface
Summary: Jazz is boring. But that doesn't mean that the performers are. - 1920's AU, oneshot. Based on the song of the same name from the Chicago movie soundtrack.


Boring. Jazz music is thoroughly boring. However challenging or thought-provoking it can be in terms of improvisation and general talent required, it lacks the grace and splendour of classical music. Not to mention the fact that the songs all sound the same because of the almost identical structure of each one. From the laid-back, dramatic melodies to the over-blown brass screams, everything about it is boring.

It's a mystery to Sherlock how the genre even took off, or why it's still present. He cannot be the only one who finds nothing pleasurable about it. Of all the people in the world, there has to be at least one person who shares his opinion. The evidence points otherwise, because as the insane amount of clubs and shows devoted primarily to the new craze indicate, everyone and their mum love it. It irritates him to no end.

How Mycroft even convinced him to come to one of those wretched places is beyond him, and he is starting to suspect that it had something to do with drugging him. It's the only possible explanation for why he has found himself sitting at the finest table in the room, chewing on a cigar and running his finger across the rim of an otherwise untouched cocktail glass. Sherlock is so bloody bored that he thinks that if nothing comes around to stimulate him in any conceivable way, he might burst. Show business is a nasty lifestyle; why hasn't there been a murder in this place yet?

Mycroft's company is just as boring as the (supposedly) upbeat jazz music floating around the room. Every single one of them is a part of some high-class organisation, and they're not afraid to show off just how rich and powerful they are. As they belittle the lower classes and make their own private little elite jokes, their double chins and bloated stomachs bounce all over the place, making Sherlock cringe. Their dates are even worse, serving only as some kind of decoration. They're all far too young to be hanging around these men, and are thus extremely moronic.

With an annoyed grunt, Sherlock resorts to looking at the stage to the band for the fifth time in less than two minutes. It's so bland. Of course, since this is one of the most expensive places in the city, the performers are many, and Sherlock guesses that they are talented as well. He can't tell, and he honestly doesn't care. But they're all clad in the same-looking navy-bluish suit that doesn't compliment any of them in the slightest. They just stand there, taking no risks with their movements while they play, except when they improvise. How dully predictable.

Sherlock takes a long drag from the cigar (something that Mycroft has said is supposed to be reserved for cigarettes), relieved to find that the smoke sooths him momentarily. It also must have heightened his sense of sight, because he suddenly finds himself staring in a corner of the stage he hasn't carefully observed yet. In it, he sees a couple of performers wearing the same suits as everyone else, so there wasn't much he missed. He almost looks away in disappointment when he notices what kind of instruments they are playing.

Clarinets.

It's only then that it dawns on Sherlock that he has been ignoring the music for so long that he hasn't heard a peep from those lovely black pipes. They have no business being on a stage playing jazz. They should be performing classical or counterpoint works, not this degrading nonsense. Sherlock almost wants to shout obscenities at the lot of them when he notices something different about who he presumes is the lead player.

Unlike the rest of the band, the lead clarinet player looks just as bored as Sherlock feels. It's astounding, especially since jazz players usually need to play up feeling happy and in a good mood when performing. This man, however, looks like he wants nothing more than to throw his instrument on the floor (a crime in and of itself) and stomp out of there. Sherlock examines him as he plays, noting the bags under his tired eyes. He momentarily wonders if they come from stress or from fatigue. Probably both.

The next thing Sherlock notices about the man are his hands. Or rather, how he plays his instrument. His companions are playing very basically, given that they're under him, so it's not nearly as interesting. But this man, despite what little he has to do in this particular song, is putting his all into it. Sherlock can't tell if it's intentional or not, but his left shoulder keeps rising every time he draws a long note. He closes his eyes to focus, obviously not needing the notes in front of him, and sways the more inflection he puts into his playing. His fingers move unnaturally smoothly up and down the pipe, as if he isn't even in control of them.

Sherlock is entranced by the delicate way the man plays. He is practically making love to his instrument, even when he's sliding scales or doing some weird screeching sound that is probably supposed to sound nice but just makes Sherlock cringe. The man doesn't belong there. He should be on a grand stage, playing Mozart's Clarinet Concerto for hundreds of people, not stuck in a jazz club playing backing vocals. It angers Sherlock, because now that he has spotted this man, he wants to hear him play without the piano and trumpets and saxophones towering over him.

It shouldn't be so fascinating, but Sherlock can't tear his eyes off the man. He looks over his stance; his arms holding the lovely instrument up; the talented fingers opening and closing the gaps; his mouth blowing air into the pipe; his tongue licking the reed when there's a rest in his music. It's all but erotic, and Sherlock catches himself panting, gripped with want for hearing more distinct notes coming from the man.

Not caring if he's interrupting anything, Sherlock abruptly slams his hand on the table, causing everyone to stop talking. He glares in Mycroft's direction, who frowns back in an irritated fashion

"Come now, Sherlock, is it not possible for you to behave for one night?" he says in an exasperated tone. "I know you despise jazz music, but this is more than just-"

"I need a name," Sherlock interrupts. When Mycroft raises an eyebrow, he clarifies: "The lead clarinet player. I need to know his name."

One of the fat businessmen guffaws, causing Sherlock to shoot his glare in his face. "Who cares about something like that?" he scoffs, some of the other men joining his laughter. "They're nobodies! Just here to entertain! It's not as if they have any chance of climbing up the ladder at this point."

Resisting the urge to strangle the man just for opening his mouth, Sherlock glances back at Mycroft. "Tell me," he demands, narrowing his eyes to let his brother know that he's serious about this.

Mycroft purses his lips for a moment as if he's thinking it over, and then snaps his fingers to call a servant. In a heartbeat, a young lad is standing over him, asking if he can help. "Tell me, are you in any way acquainted with members of the band?" Mycroft inquires, sounding very uninterested in what he's saying.

"Why no, sir," the lad replies. Sherlock pouts, which seems to make Mycroft push on.

"Well, despite that, do you know the names of any of the players?" he asks, gesturing towards the band.

The lad nods this time. "Oh yes, sir, a few," he says, which makes Sherlock sit up straight in his seat and focus intently on what comes next. "The piano player is Taylor Hicks, the one on tenor sax is Harold Sighvat, there's Hans Peters on trombone…"

"What about the lead clarinet player?" Sherlock cuts in, desperate to know. Mycroft's company eyes him suspiciously, but he doesn't care.

With a small surprise, the lad replies: "He's relatively new, sir." Now Sherlock wants to strangle him as well. That is, until he adds: "I believe his name is Watson. John Watson."

"John…" Sherlock breathes as he settles back in his chair with a small smirk. Of course someone as remarkably talented as that man would have the simplest and most common name on the planet. Sherlock lets out a small chuckle at that thought, and then turns back to look at the man. _John_.

"Watson, Sherlock, do remember your formalities," Mycroft points out, snapping Sherlock out of his momentary trance. "Even for people like that."

Sherlock shoots daggers at his brother. How dares he? Can he not see what Sherlock sees? That this man has been wrongly positioned here? That he deserves so much better than a bloody jazz club? "His name is John, and I will call him that if I choose," Sherlock spits back at his brother before turning his attention to the clarinet player, ignoring the scoffs his remarks earns from Mycroft's company.

Dear Lord, it's like a work of art. Just watching him stand there and play in his own unique way is doing a number of things to Sherlock. He is somehow able to narrow his vision down to only John and his playing, wishing he could do the same thing to sound. If only there was some way he could isolate the notes coming from John, to hear his playing as it's meant to be heard.

The night goes on like this, with Mycroft's fat business buddies laughing loudly, swinging their drinks, smoking their cigars and showing off their decorations. All the while Sherlock never stops staring at John. He's utterly mesmerising, even if he's just standing there looking utterly bored. But he puts so much effort and grace into whatever he's playing that Sherlock can't stop watching. Even if it's just long notes with no inflection, Sherlock can tell John is putting his all into what he's doing. And it's glorious. No matter the song, no matter the beat, no matter the loudness, John is always at the top of his game. It's honestly starting to make Sherlock's mouth go dry.

It's not until Mycroft taps his shoulder that he notices that the crowd has gotten considerably smaller. Even most of the company has left, leaving only the brothers behind. "Sherlock, I think it's about time we headed home," Mycroft says sternly, looking at Sherlock in a scolding manner.

Sherlock frowns back at him. "No," is the only thing he says before focusing on John once more.

Mycroft sighs. "You can't stay here all night simply because some random man in a jazz bar can play the clarinet very well," he says. "I know you fancy watching talented performers, but this has gone on for too long."

With a frown, Sherlock responds: "One more song. Then I might consider going back home."

"Suit yourself," Mycroft sighs with a shrug before standing up. "I think I'll leave you to it. I lost interest in this Watson fellow a while ago. Meet me at the door in ten minutes at the most." And with that, he leaves. Not that Sherlock is aware of it, because he is still watching _John_ intensely.

A wild applause from what's left of the crowd distracts him for a second, and just now is he aware of the fact that there has been an announcer this whole time. Sherlock is not even going to bother to wonder how he missed that, because he knows.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this one's for all you night owls who are still with us tonight," the announcer says, a smooth beat emitting from the band. "And for those of you who are leaving, we say goodnight."

The beat dies out for a couple of seconds to make room for a small piano intro, and then it starts again. And by God, Sherlock is awestruck. There is a spotlight on John. Sherlock rises in his seat to be able to see him better, and then promptly sinks back with a small shudder as John starts playing. Oh God. It's amazing. It's so simple, and yet every single note sends shivers down Sherlock's spine. He can't take his eyes off John's fingers, even if they aren't doing anything spectacular. But the way they're moving, slowly and surely, is making Sherlock sweat. He wonders how they would feel on his skin. And that mouth. Those lips covering the mouthpiece. For a split second, Sherlock pictures them covering something else entirely.

It's too good to last, of course, because soon the trombone player is running the show. Sherlock isn't angry that someone stole John's spotlight, however, because he's still there, playing absurdly high notes so softly that Sherlock feels like they will melt him. He suddenly finds that he's putting a finger between his lips, and that the shudders coming from John's notes (even if he's just harmonising with the other clarinet players in the background now) are travelling straight to his groin. Holy hell. This has never happened before. It's intriguing. Sherlock decides that he likes it.

He keeps staring at John, imagining all kinds of things the man could be doing to him with that mouth, and those fingers. The trombone part reaches its peak, and oh _God_, the clarinets are moving so high up. The scale should be ear-grating, but it only amplifies what Sherlock is feeling. He bites his fist to keep from letting out a moan when everything suddenly comes to an abrupt stop and the trumpets move in. He can't take it. If the clarinets come back, he can't be sitting in the crowded room. He has been watching John for long enough. He'll remember what his movements look like.

So, during the sudden brass part, Sherlock stands up and practically runs towards the restrooms. His mind is buzzing, images of John somehow caught in the middle of it all. He feels like he's going to explode. He crashes into the men's room and then hurls himself into an empty cubicle, locking it behind him. His own suit is too hot and tight. He has to loosen his tie, roll up the sleeves, unbuckle his belt…

The second trombone part is ending. He can hear it from the build-up. Sherlock lifts his shirt up, exposing his stomach, and lightly touches the skin there. With just the music in the background, he feels as if he's an instrument himself. He's almost too sensitive for his own touch, but the music guides him through it. With a swift movement, he shoves his other hand down his trousers, cupping his rock-hard arousal. Oh God. He had gotten hard just from listening to a damn clarinet. No, scratch that. From _watching_ someone play a damn clarinet. It should be embarrassing, but Sherlock can't be arsed to care about it right now.

The drumbeat matches his thumping heart, which ups its rhythm when he slowly starts stroking himself. Too slowly. He takes a slightly firmer grip, slicking his length with the precome that has already started leaking. He turns in the cubicle, back against the wall, throws his head up and groans. He needs the sound again; that glorious sound coming from that glorious instrument being played by that glorious man. Frustratingly, he bangs his head on the wall, already starting to pant.

And then they come back. They come back in a harmony that almost sounds like an orgasming moan, and Sherlock joins it with his own sound. He strokes faster, and closes his eyes, leanimg his head back. He can't tell who's in the lead anymore, the trumpet, the trombone, the drums, the piano; it doesn't matter, because all he hears is the damn clarinet. It's as if John is right there, doing all the work.

"Here, let me help you," Sherlock imagines him saying as he's able to further isolate instrument from instrument. He imagines John sliding his fingers up and down his body like he does with the clarinet, sensitising his skin. It causes him to groan even louder, and he pants frantically, desperate for release. He shucks down his trousers and pants, stroking more vigorously.

"Not so fast," John is telling him with his notes. "Enjoy it. Feel it build up." Sherlock obeys the music, whining when it won't keep up with him.

"I can't… J- John, I- I need to- Oh God," Sherlock whispers to no one, his hand on his stomach clasping the skin. He needs more; he needs a change in the music somehow. Something that will send him off the edge. Despite John's urges, he keeps stroking fast, feeling something building up inside him, but it's not enough. "Please," he groans.

He hears the music giggle, and then John's fingers are on him again. Only this time, they're not just trailing; they're moving towards his groin. They go in short paths, but they're getting there. It's agonising, and Sherlock practically sobs. "Please!" he begs again, and John chuckles, deciding that this is enough of teasing.

The notes are insanely high now, and Sherlock decides that he loves them. He feels high on them. The music suddenly comes to a complete halt, and there is only the clarinet. That gorgeous clarinet climbing a scale up, up, up, during which John's hands are moving down, down, down... Sherlock is all but hyperventilating now. The highest note of the scale somehow manages to slide – _slide_ for God's sake – even higher, and that's when Sherlock feels John's hand stroking him along with his own touch.

"John!" he exclaims, not caring if anyone hears him. John is helping him, his hand moving smoothly up and down Sherlock's length as his fingers do on the instrument. The joined sensation is almost overwhelming, and Sherlock is sure that his knees are about to give out. He somehow manages to stay upright, though, but he's starting to shiver and spasm. "John, I- I'm-"

"That's it, Sherlock," John says through the music. It's building up to an ending now, Sherlock can tell, and John's encouragement is only making him come further undone. Another couple of slides from the clarinet make Sherlock all but scream from the pleasure coiling inside him. "Come for me."

It's the final note that makes Sherlock completely break. The clarinets wail just as loudly as he does when he reaches his climax. He's being embarrassingly loud, and his shout echoes through the restroom when the band stops playing, but Sherlock doesn't care. He pants heavily, chanting John's name as he rides out the aftershocks. He then slumps down to the floor, hissing through his teeth as his bare bottom hits the cold floor. With his eyes still closed, he rests his head against the wall of the cubicle, trying to recover from it all.

After a few seconds, Sherlock has calmed down, and he opens his eyes. He snorts at the sight before him: he has spurted all over the opposite wall. With some difficulty, he stands up, his legs shaking slightly. He reaches for a bit of tissue paper to wipe most of the come off himself (mostly his hand), but leaves what is on the wall where it is. He then pulls his trousers back on, and properly suits himself up again.

Sherlock walks out of the cubicle to have a look at himself in the mirror. He instantly notices the flush that's spread across his cheeks and down his neck, but thankfully it's fading. The hair on the back of his head is a bit ruffled as well, so he fixes that. He looks himself over. Thankfully he didn't come on his suit, but his pants might need some cleaning. Once he's certain that he can look calm and composed to other people, he walks out of the restroom and towards the front door. Mycroft, as was expected, is waiting for him.

"Well then, you've had your one song," he says. "Now can we go?"

Sherlock shoots the stage a glance, and for the first time, he's thankful that he doesn't see John, otherwise he might never leave. "Yes, but only on one condition," he replies smugly.

"And what's that?" Mycroft asks.

"That we come back here at least two nights a week," Sherlock states. When Mycroft gives him a questioning look, he adds: "I've changed my mind. I think I rather like jazz music." He shoots the stage another look, grinning in the direction of the clarinet player who has no idea that he has, unknowingly, just given Sherlock the best orgasm of his life.


End file.
